THE ROBE (51 page)

Tiberias gleamed white in the mid-forenoon sun. The marble palace of
Herod Antipas, halfway up the hill, appropriately set apart from the less noble
but surprisingly lavish residences, glistened dazzlingly. Demetrius imagined he
could see a sinuous shimmer of heat enveloping the proud structure, and was
glad he did not have to live there. He was not envious of Herod's privilege to
spend the summer here. However, he reflected, the family had probably sought a
more congenial altitude for the hot season, leaving a small army of servants to
sweat and steal and quarrel until the weather eased with the coming of autumn.

He had reached the little city now, and proceeded on through it, keeping
close to the beach, where many fishing-boats had been drawn up on the sand, and
the adjacent market-booths reeked of their merchandise. Occasionally he was
viewed with a momentary curiosity by small groups of apathetic loungers,
sitting cross-legged in the shade of dirty food-shops. The air was heavy with
decaying fruit and the stench of rancid oil sizzling in tarnished pans. It had
been a long time since breakfast, and Demetrius had had an unusual amount of
exercise. He tarried before one of the unpleasant food-stalls. The swarthy cook
scowled, and waved his wooden spoon at the shabby traveller with the uncouth
cap--and no pack.

'Begone, fellow!' he commanded. 'We have nothing to give you.'

Demetrius jingled his money, and made a wry face.

'Nor have you anything to sell that a dog would eat,' he retorted.

The greasy fellow instantly beamed with a wheedling smile, lifting his
shoulders and elbows into a posture of servitude. It was this type of Jew that
Demetrius had always despised, the Jew who was arrogant, noisy, and abusive
until he heard a couple of coins clink. Immediately, you were his friend, his
brother, his master. You could pour out a torrent of invective on him now, if
you liked. He would be weather-proofed and his smile undiminished. He had heard
the pennies.

'Oh, not so bad as that, sir!' exclaimed the cook. 'The evil smell'--he
wagged a confidential thumb toward the neighbouring booth--'it is that one who
defiles the air with his stale perch and wretched oil.' Tipping a grimy kettle
forward, he stirred its steaming contents, appreciatively sucking his lips.
'Delicious!' he murmured.

A tousled, red-eyed legionary sauntered up from the water-front, rested
an elbow on the end of the high table, and sourly sniffed the heavy scent of
burning fat. His uniform was dirty. Apparently he had slept where he fell.
Doubtless he was ready for food now. He gave Demetrius a surly stare.

'Have a bowl of this beautiful pottage, Centurion,' coaxed the cook.
'Choice lamb, with many costly spices. A great helping for only two farthings.'

Demetrius repressed a grin. 'Centurion,' eh? Why hadn't the Jew gone the
whole way and addressed the debauched legionary as 'Legate'? But perhaps he
knew where to stop when dishing out flattery. The unkempt Roman snarled a
curse, and rubbed his clammy forehead with his dirty brown head-band. The cook
took up an empty bowl and smiled encouragingly at Demetrius, who scowled and
shook his head.

'None for me,' he muttered, turning away.

'I'll have some!' declared the legionary truculently, slapping an empty
wallet.

The cook's eager face collapsed, but he was not in a position to refuse
the penniless soldier. With a self-piteous shrug, he half-filled the bowl and
put it down on the filthy table.

'Business is so bad,' he whined.

'So is your pottage,' mumbled the legionary, chewing a hot mouthful.
'Even that slave would have none of it.'

'Slave, sir?' The cook leaned over the high table to have another look
at the tall Greek, who was moving leisurely up the street. 'He has a wallet
full of money. Good money, too--from the sound of it! A thief, no doubt!'

The legionary put down his spoon. His lip curled in a crafty grin. If an
overdue soldier could reappear at the fort with a prisoner in tow, he might
make a better case for his absence all night.

'Hi, you!' he shouted. 'Come back here!'

Demetrius hesitated, turned, held a brief parley with himself, and
retraced his steps. It would do no good to attempt an escape in the
neighbourhood of a fort.

'Did you call me, sir?' he asked quietly.

'How do you happen to be in Tiberias alone, fellow?' The legionary wiped
his stubbled chin. 'Where is your master? Don't pretend you're not a
slave--with that ear.'

'My master is on the way to Capernaum, sir. He sent me on to seek out a
desirable camping-place.'

This sounded reasonable. The legionary untidily helped himself to
another large spoonful of the pottage.

'Who is your master, fellow? And what is he doing in Capernaum?'

'A Roman citizen, sir; a merchant.'

'A likely tale!' snorted the legionary. 'What manner of merchandise does
a Roman find in Capernaum?'

'Homespun, sir,' said Demetrius. 'Galilean rugs and robes.'

The legionary chuckled scornfully and scraped the bottom of his bowl
with a shaky spoon.

'Greek slaves are usually better liars than that,' he growled. 'You must
think me a fool. A slave in rags and patches, seeking a camp-site for a Roman
who comes all the way to little Capernaum to buy clothing!'

'And with much money on him!' shrilled the cook. 'A robber he is!'

'Shut up, pig!' bellowed the legionary. 'I should take you up too if you
were not so filthy.' Setting his soiled head-band at a jaunty angle, he rose,
tightened his belt, belched noisily, and motioned to Demetrius to fall in
behind him.

'But why am I arrested, sir?' demanded Demetrius.

'Never mind about that!' snarled the legionary. 'You can tell your story
at the fort.' With an exaggerated swagger, he marched stiffly up the street
without turning to see whether his captive was following.

Demetrius hesitated for a moment, but decided that it would be foolhardy
to attempt an escape in a vicinity so well patrolled. He would go along to the
fort and try to send a message to Marcellus.

Beyond the limits of Tiberias the grim old sand-coloured barracks loomed
up on the arid hillside. Above the centre of the quadrangle reared the parapets
of the inevitable praetorium. The legionary strutted on toward the massive
wooden gate. A sentry sluggishly unbarred the heavy barricade. They passed into
the treeless, sun-blistered drill-ground and on between orderly rows of brown
tents, unoccupied now, for it was noon and the legion would be in the
mess-hall. Presently they brought up before the relatively impressive entrance
of the praetorium. A grey-haired guard made way for them.

'Take this slave below and lock him up,' barked the legionary.

'What's your name, fellow?' demanded the guard.

Demetrius told him.

'And your master's name?'

'Lucan, a Roman citizen.'

'Where does he live?'

'In Rome.'

The guard gave the dishevelled legionary an appraising glance. Demetrius
thought he saw some hesitancy on the part of the older man.

'What's the charge?' asked the guard.

'Suspicion of theft,' said the legionary. 'Lock him up, and let him
explain later how he happens to be wandering about, away from his master,
dressed like a fisherman--and with a wallet full of money.'

'Write his name on the slate, then,' said the guard. 'The Centurion is
at mess.'

The legionary fumbled with the chalk, and handed it to Demetrius.

'Can you write your name, slave?' he enquired gruffly.

In spite of his predicament, Demetrius was amused. It was obvious that
neither of these Romans could write. If they couldn't write, they couldn't
read. He took the chalk and wrote:

'Demetrius, Greek slave of Lucan, a Roman encamped in Capernaum.'

'Long name--for a slave,' remarked the legionary. 'If you have written
anything else--'

'My master's name, sir.'

'Put him away, then,' said the legionary, turning to go. The old guard
tapped on the floor with his lance and a younger guard appeared. He signed with
a jerk of his head that Demetrius should follow, and strode off down the
corridor to a narrow stairway. They descended to the prison. Bearded faces
appeared at the small square apertures in the cell-doors; Jewish faces, mostly,
and a few tough-looking Bedouins.

Demetrius was pushed into an open cell at the far end of the narrow
corridor. A perpendicular slit, high in the outer wall, admitted a frugal
light. The only furniture was a wide wooden bench. Anchored to the masonry lay
a heavy chain with a rusty manacle. The guard ignored the chain, retreated into
the corridor, banged the heavy door shut and pushed the bolt.

Sitting down on the bench, Demetrius surveyed his cramped quarters, and
wondered how long he would have to wait for some official action in his case.
It suddenly occurred to him that if the dissipated legionary suspected the entry
on the slate he might have thought it safer to rub it out. In that event, the
new prisoner stood a good chance of being forgotten. Perhaps he should have
made a dash for it when he had an opportunity. Assuming a speedy trial, how
much should he tell? It would be difficult to explain Marcellus's business in
Galilee. Without doubt, old Julian the Legate was under orders to make short
work of this Christian movement. There was no telling what attitude he might
take if he learned that Marcellus had been consorting with these disciples of
Jesus.

As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Demetrius noticed a shelf in
the corner bearing an earthenware food-basin and a small water-bowl. He had
been hungry an hour ago. Now he was thirsty. Moving to the door he crouched--for
the barred window was not placed for a tenant of his height--and looked across
the narrow corridor into a pair of inquisitive Roman eyes framed in the
opposite cell-door. The eyes were about the same age as his own, and seemed
amused.

'When do we get food and water?' asked Demetrius, in circus Latin.

'Twice,' replied the Roman, amiably. 'At mid-morning--you should have
arrived earlier--and again at sunset. Praise the gods, I shan't be here for the
next feeding. I'm getting out this afternoon. My week is up.'

'I can't wait until sunset for water,' muttered Demetrius.

'I'll wager you ten sesterces you'll wait until they bring it to you,'
drawled the Roman. He straightened to relieve his cramped position, revealing a
metal identification tablet on the chain around his neck.

'What is your legion?' inquired Demetrius, seeing his neighbour was
disposed to be talkative.

'Seventeenth: this one.'

'Why aren't you in the legion's guardhouse,' ventured Demetrius,
'instead of down in this hole with the villains?'

'The guardhouse is full,' chuckled the legionary.

'Was there a mutiny?' inquired Demetrius.

Not a mutiny, the legionary explained. They had had a celebration.
Julian the Legate had been transferred to Jerusalem. The new Legate had brought
a detachment of fifty along with him from his old command, to guard him on the
journey. During the festivities, much good wine had flowed; much good blood,
too, for the detachment from Minoa was made up of quarrelsome legionaries--

'From Minoa!' exclaimed Demetrius. 'Is Tribune Paulus your new Legate?'

'Indeed he is!' retorted the legionary. 'And hard! Old Julian was
easy-going. This fellow has no mercy. As for the fighting, it was nothing; a
few dagger cuts, a couple of bloody noses. One man from Minoa lost a slice off
his ear.' He grinned reminiscently. 'I sliced it off,' he added, modestly. 'It
didn't hurt him much. And he knew it was accidental.' After a little pause, 'I
see somebody nicked you on the ear.'

'That wasn't accidental,' grinned Demetrius, willing to humour the
legionary, who laughed appreciatively, as if it were a good joke on the Greek
that he had been enslaved.

'Did you run away?' asked the Roman.

'No--I was to have joined my master in Capernaum.'

'He'll get you out. You needn't worry. He's a Roman, of course.'

'Yes,' said Demetrius, 'but he doesn't know I'm here.' He lowered his
voice. 'I wonder if you could get a message to him. I'd gladly give you
something for your trouble.'

The legionary laughed derisively.

'Big talk--for a slave,' he scoffed. 'How much? Two denarii, maybe?'

'I'll give you ten shekels.'

'That you won't!' muttered the legionary. 'I don't want any of that kind
of money, fellow!'

'I didn't steal it,' declared Demetrius. 'My master gave it to me.'

'Well, you can keep it!' The legionary scowled and moved back from the
door.

Demetrius sat down dejectedly on the bench. He was very thirsty.

Chapter XVII

Of course it was sheer nonsense to say that you had full confidence in
Nathanael Bartholomew's integrity but disbelieved his eye-witness account of
the storm.

Nor could you clarify this confusion by assuming that the old man had
been a victim of hallucination. Bartholomew wasn't that type of person. He was
neither a liar nor a fool.

According to his story, told at great length as they sat together in his
little fig orchard, Jesus had rebuked a tempest on the Sea of Galilee; he
commanded the gale to cease, and it had obeyed his voice--instantly! Jesus had
spoken and the storm had stopped! Bartholomew had snapped his dry old fingers.
Like
that!

And the story wasn't hearsay. Bartholomew hadn't heard it from a
neighbour who had got it from his cousin. No, sir! The old man had been in the
boat that night. He had heard and seen it all! If you couldn't believe it,
Bartholomew would not be offended; but it was
truth!

The tale was finished now. The aged disciple sat calmly fanning his
wrinkled neck, drawing his long, white beard aside and loosening the collar of
his robe. Marcellus, with no further comments to offer and no more questions to
ask, frowned studiously at his own interlaced fingers, conscious of Justus's
inquisitive eyes. He knew they expected him to express an opinion; and, after a
silence that was becoming somewhat constrained, he obliged them by muttering to
himself, 'Very strange! Very strange indeed!'